The Day the Sunset
by WhiteWolf100101
Summary: NO PAIRINGS. The story of a young patriot's journey from a rebellious colony into an independent nation and the empire doing everything within his power to stop him. A historical fic centered around events in the American Revolution, dedicated to everyone taking their AP U.S. History exams… Good luck my dudes.
1. Chapter 1

_December 17th, 1773_

 _Arthur Kirkland has requested my presence at his office in Boston this evening. As luck would have it, I'm already in the Massachusetts Bay Colony. I can't imagine why he wishes to speak with me—_

Alfred F. Jones frowned at his journal. He hated the way he wrote; it always sounded too formal… like he expected someone to read and grade his private thoughts. Frustrated, Al flipped through a few pages to a sketch of three ships he'd started earlier that evening. With pencil in hand, Alfred flashed his blue eyes, thoughtfully scanning over his near-complete drawing… it was missing something.

A devilish grin slowly spread itself across the boy's face as he wrote _Dartmouth_ , _Eleanor_ , and _Beaver_ on the sides of each respective ship. Now it was perfect.

"Practicing your writing?"

Alfred nearly jumped out of his seat. He looked up and caught the eyes of Kirkland's secretary sitting across the room at the lobby desk. He was an older man, with graying hair and a wrinkled but cheerful-looking face. "Yessir," Al quickly answered as he snapped the journal shut.

This seemed to please the secretary.

"Aren't you the little gentleman," he happily answered as he dipped his quill into a vile of ink and penned something onto a piece of paper. The man looked up again, "Are you still in school?"

Al shook his head and said,

"I used to go to the Boston Latin School, but I finished that up a little while ago."

It wasn't exactly a lie.

Arthur enrolled Al in The Boston Latin School as soon as it opened back in 1635. But after a few years, his caretaker forced him to move to the Rhode Island Colony and start again at a different school. Igg— er, Arthur didn't want any of the colonists growing suspicious of Alfred's seemingly endless youth.

' _Never tell anyone who you really are without my expressed permission, America,'_ he remembered Arthur telling him,

' _I don't want you or any of our kind in danger_... _Believe me, I've seen what happens when too many mortals find out about personifications_.' Alfred scoffed at the memory. He'd been so trusting of his mentor back then. ' _England would kill me if he found out how many people know I'm The Thirteen_ —'

"—You still look a little young to be enrolled in any of the colleges," the secretary called out, pulling America from his thoughts,

"What do you do with all of your free time?"

The young colony nervously laughed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Eh, this and that," he cryptically replied.

Before the secretary could inquire any further, the office door suddenly swung open, revealing the very shaken, very nervous Boston constable, Isaac Townsend. The constable recognized Alfred and offered him a subdued, small smile before continuing wordlessly out the lobby.

There was a pause.

For a blissful moment, America thought England had forgotten he'd asked his colony to talk with him. Then a voice echoed out from inside the room.

"Mr. Jones."

It sounded more like a command than an invitation to meet him inside.

' _Here we go_ ,' Al thought as he tucked his journal into his coat pocket and pushed himself off the waiting room chair. He confidently walked into Arthur's office, taking great care to silently close the door behind him.

There were giant, yellowing maps on just about every inch of wall in the room. Many of them had red lines etched on their surfaces marking various trade routes between Europe and North America. Shelves were filled with trinkets taken from across the globe, and each row was neatly organized by culture and region. England sat behind his desk in the center of everything; his head rested on his fist while he silently watched his colony take a seat. The way England looked at America reminded the him of someone trying to outmatch another player at chess.

The colony uncomfortably shifted underneath the weight of the empire's piercing gaze.

"You're looking a little nervous, America. Is something the matter?" England innocently asked as America pulled his chair up to the desk.

"I was supposed to be heading to New York today," America tried to brush off the question, "So as you can imagine, I'm a little behind schedule…. Other than that I'm fine."

"I hope you weren't going there to listen to more of that treasonous, radical nonsense," Arthur noted, bringing his hands down and leaning forward.

America opened his mouth as if to retort the statement but quickly closed it. Britain curiously raised one of his thick eyebrows and allowed the pregnant silence to linger on a little while.

"Tea?" He finally asked as he stood to bring out a kettle and a pair of teacups for the both of them.

"I've lost my taste for it."

"Really?"

England said coolly, in a calculating sort of way,

"Forgive me, but I find it a little difficult to believe that you would stop drinking tea since your colonists drink…what was it…a little over one million pounds of tea each year?"

Without waiting for his colony to say anything in reply, Arthur placed a matching set of teacups and saucers on his side of the desk and began to pour. Al recognized the magenta colored liquid at once. It was hibiscus tea...his favorite, er, what _used to be_ his favorite kind of tea. America watched England add several spoonfuls of what he guessed to be sugar to one of the cups. Arthur wordlessly slid the cup towards the boy.

For a while, Alfred simply stared at the cup, slowly clasping and unclasping his fist— unsure of what to do. England quietly noted the colony's inner struggle of choosing whether to drink the tea or not. He filed his suspicions away for dissection at a later time.

At long last, the boy finally caved into the temptation, picked up his teacup, and took a sip.

He didn't notice right away, but once the tea reached his tongue Alfred knew something was wrong—the flavor was awful, it stung and burned as he gulped the drink down. He covered his mouth and coughed until the horrible choking sensation left his throat.

"What was that?" America asked as he gasped for air, rubbing his teary eyes.

"Hmm?" England stared quizzically at the boy as if he hadn't noticed the small coughing fit.

"Oh. The tea." He said darkly.

"I added salt to it of course. I figured that's how you drank tea now, considering that all 342 crates of tea from the _Dartmouth_ , _Eleanor_ , and _Beaver_ are now in the Boston harbor."

"Oh, that." Al cleared his throat and gingerly placed his teacup down. "Well maybe if the Tea Act was repealed like all of the other Acts, there would be no tea in the harbor right now."

He was immortal, America knew that, but one glance at The British Empire had him doubting it.

"In case you've forgotten, _I_ recently fought a war defending _you_ that ended up gaining _you_ more territory. Is it really too much to ask that the colonists who benefited from my campaign help pay for the war efforts?" England darkly shot back as he took a sip of tea from his own cup.

America held England's gaze before turning to focus on something in the room other than the British officer sitting across from him. He'd been over this with England before, but every time this conversation came up it always slipped into the same argument loop. The taxes weren't what bothered America and his people (that much anyway), it was the lack of—

"I want names, America."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"A wheelwright named Francis Akeley has already been arrested, but one man won't be good enough for Parliament."

"Well since I don't have any representation, I don't really care what's good enough for Parl—"

"—Mr. Adams must've been there with you," Arthur interrupted, "It's common knowledge that he's strongly opposed to the Tea Act."

"Wait," Al held his hands in the air, "are you just assuming that I was involved in the protest?"

Arthur snorted, "There were hundreds of witnesses at last night's 'protest'. Did you really think no one would've noticed a thirteen-year-old boy among a group of rioting men?"

"Well everyone wore disguises, so I really doubt witnesses would've done any good," America flatly stated, folding his arms across his chest.

"I don't recall telling you that they were in disguise…"

" _According to the newspapers_ ," he clarified, "the men who raided the ships were dressed like Mohawks and were unrecognizable."

"Alfred F. Jones," Arthur closed his eyes and pinched his fingers on the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to alleviate a headache,

"I need you to consider the consequences of a little stunt like this—appearing weak is not a luxury the Empire has right now. I need you to put an end to whatever madness has seeped into Massachusetts as of late."

"In the meantime," the Englishman continued, "I'm very interested hearing, in great detail, everything you felt happen in Boston last night."

"What I felt in Boston? Okay… " America tried to hide his sly smirk, "Colonists were mad so I felt mad. But instead of participating in the _protest_ , I went to bed like a the good little loyalist I am."

Arthur flatly stared at the American and motioned for him to continue speaking.

Al rolled his eyes and added, "And I didn't feel any sharp stings, so I don't think anyone died. The end."

"You know I'm going to need more than that..."

After nearly another hour and a half of fruitless interrogations (as well as a few more reprimands for good measure), Arthur let out a heavy breath and stood to get the door for Alfred.

"Control your colonists, or I will. Understand?"

England paused, no doubt waiting for his colony's compliance. America joined him at the door and stifled a groan.

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, _sir_."

Arthur's lips curled into a scowl at the tone Alfred gave him. The boy sensed he was pushing his luck and lowered his eyes from the Empire's cold gaze. Al hoped his small act of submission— regardless of how insincere it was—would be enough to appease the fuming man in front of him.

"I'm leaving tomorrow with the morning tide," England finally said, his demeanor unreadable on the outside though he was anything less than furious within. The heavy-browed man noticed the American slightly stiffened at his statement, but the stubborn boy refused to let his disappointment seep through any other way.

"Understood, sir."

England sighed.

"Dismissed."

It took every ounce of The Thirteen Colonies' self-control not to slam the door shut as he exited the building and stomped down the street.

" _Control your colonists or I will!_ " America mockingly yelled once he was a safe distance away and the howling wind could mask his voice. He grabbed a fist full of snow and threw it at different shop signs as he made his trek down the frozen road, not stopping the onslaught until his hands were too cold to aim properly.

Al shivered, pulled his coat closer to his neck, and angrily shoved his numb hands into his pockets. ' _Boston's freezing tonight_ ,' he finally realized once his disappointment and anger fizzled out.

Feeling miserable, America looked out at the shadowy, brick buildings lining the street. Less than a day ago, it was teeming with men who wished to send the world a message. Now the street was quiet and unassuming, covered in a soft blanket of fresh snow. In the distance, a bright glow steadily streamed out from inside a familiar-looking malthouse.

"I guess it's time to pay Sam Adams a visit," the boy whispered to himself as he made his way to the door.

The strong smell of ale and the voices of numerous large, rowdy men greeted the colony as he walked inside the building. Lit lanterns cast a warm, orange light on the brick walls surrounding the room. Men laughed, sung, and merrily drank their pints of alcohol in small clusters all around. Alfred didn't give any of it much attention though and found an empty barstool to sit on.

From the corner of his eye, Al saw a figure walking in his direction on the other side of the bar counter.

"Whiskey," Al said, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Wha–– Alfred?" the figure, Samuel Adams, laughed, "I almost didn't recognize you with that serious face." The bar's owner reached over and roughly ran his hands through Alfred's blonde hair, trying to cheer him up.

The gesture didn't help lift his spirits much, but Al put a small smile on his face for Adams' sake.

Sam Adams was one of the men who knew Alfred as America. He was a confident man with bright, kind eyes and a face usually plastered with a grin on it. The prominent Sons of Liberty leader always seemed up to something— his energetic nature and natural ambition completely masked the fact he was pushing 50. Wrinkles on the sides of his eyes and streaks of gray in his dark hair were the only indications Adams' had of his true age.

"I'm afraid my wife would be upset if she found out I served whiskey to _a little boy_ —" Sam defensively put up his hands in response to the look the colony gave "—but I promise I'll pour you a glass once you look a little older."

' _And if England got his way that would be never_ ,' America bitterly thought as he slumped lower onto the counter, ' _He thinks I've grown too fast already_.'

The malthouse's owner took note of his colony's mood, and with a quick snap of his fingers, returned with a fizzy, bubbly drink in hand.

"Warm apple cider," the man stated while sliding the cup closer to the pouting boy, "I'm sure it will cheer you up just the same," he added with a wink.

Sam wasn't wrong, the cider warmed Alfred from the inside out. Though Al was pretty sure anything Mr. Adams offered him would've been better than the tea Arthur tricked him into drinking.

' _And speaking of tea…_ '

"How are The Sons of Liberty?" Al asked in between sips of apple cider.

"Look around you," Sam gestured out into the room as he cleaned a glass, "everyone here's been giddy all day. It's too bad about Akeley though, but I'm sure he'll be out of prison in no time." He placed the newly clean glass down and started working on another. Sam's head snapped up as if he suddenly remembered something, "Hey, weren't you supposed to be riding down to Manhattan to let the New York chapter know what's happened?"

America wiped his mouth on his sleeve, "I was delayed by Arthur Kirkland."

"The British officer who arrived in Boston this morning?"

"That's the one," Al confirmed, "he's briefly investigating the protest to give a report to Parliament. Kirkland had a long talk with the harbor constable, and probably had a chat with Akeley in prison. He's convinced I was a part of everything too."

"...How much does he know?"

"It's hard to say… he's suspicious of the right people, but he lacks proof. I'd be cautious moving forward if I were you."

"I'll keep that in mind," Adams nodded. A patron sitting on the other end of the bar grabbed his attention, so he bid Alfred goodbye and walked over to serve the new guest.

America took another big gulp of his cider. He knew he needed to get back to his house to rest for the journey to New York, but the malthouse was too cheerful and warm for Alfred to justify leaving just yet. After his grueling interrogation with England, he needed to be around other free-spirited Americans to help bring his mood up.

But what to do in the meantime?

Al smirked as he reached into his coat pocket, grabbed his journal, took out a pencil, and continued where he'd left off:

 _—However, if I had to guess, I would say that my guardian was a little upset with my_ alleged _involvement in a certain incident that happened last night. But honestly, Arthur should've been proud. It was a Tea Party after all…_

* * *

Fog and condensation began to build up on the delicate windows of the church. The creaks and moans of the wooden floorboards gave testament to the fact that the building's capacity was being pushed to its limit. A lucky few stood on the pews while the large majority of people were packed tightly around the pulpit or atop the second story balcony. Alfred found himself pinned near a support beam in the corner of the room, too invested in what was being said to be uncomfortable.

He was inside the Old South Meeting House, and the tension here was sharp enough to kill a man. Earlier that day, Governor Thomas Hutchinson gave permission to the captains of the _Dartmouth_ , _Eleanor_ , and _Beaver_ to dock at Boston's harbor and unload their supply of tea the next morning. In short, Boston was being forced to pay the Tea Tax, and the Massachusetts Bay colonists were not pleased with their governor's resolve.

"NO TAXES ON TEA!"

The foundations of the church practically shook as thousands of people yelled out their chant in unison.

Despite the anger incubating around him, America felt… happy. There were men and women from different towns, backgrounds, and social classes from all across Massachusetts gathered in the meeting house. All of them were united despite their individual status, gender, and age… it energized The Thirteen Colonies in a way he couldn't fathom.

"NO TAXES ON TEA!"

America smiled as he looked around at the people, soaking in whatever mystic energy this rally was bringing him. A few years ago in Virginia, he'd made the mistake of asking England what these feelings meant... He was promptly barred from attending any more protests after that.

Naturally, this left Alfred no other choice than to try to find the source of whatever he'd felt himself. What he ended up finding— or perhaps was destined to find— was a tiny group of rebellious colonists.

Al continued to scan the room and smirked once he spied a few familiar faces. Some of the men gathered in the church building were from the Loyal Nine, the original secret group before the Sons of Liberty formed. ' _We've come a long way since 1765_ ,' America proudly thought as he listened to Adams rile up the crowd:

"—We have exhausted each and every mean of legal action and diplomatic negotiation— Boston, tell me, where have these pleas gotten us?! It is clear to me now that _this meeting can do nothing more to save the country_!—"

Al gasped, ' _That was it_ ,' he thought, ' _the signal_ —' the boy looked around and noticed a select few spectators began to discreetly exit the Old South Meeting House '— _The Boston Tea Party is starting_.'

He felt a heavy hand press down on his shoulder and looked up to see James Swan, one of the members of the Sons of Liberty, staring expectantly at him. America quickly nodded and followed Swan as he weaved through the crowd of fuming attendees.

"—And now, Dr. Thomas Young will come to the pulpit to speak on 'The Ill Effects of Tea on the Constitution'," America heard just as he quietly exited the meeting house.

"Do you think the plan to stall will work?" Al called out to James as the pair quickened their pace to meet up with the other members of the rebel group.

"Hard to say," he replied in a thick, Scottish accent, "but it does sound like a _niche_ topic to me…"

Alfred frowned as they caught up with another group of men further down the street, this plan needed time. As the colony thought this, more people— both members of the Sons of Liberty and angry citizens alike— began to join their number, many of them sported feathers and painted faces. A few of the rioters even went as far as to bring their own tomahawks to complete their Mohawk Indian attire.

Swan dumped the ashes from the pipe he'd been smoking into the palm of his hand and used the black powder to disguise his face with different markings. The Scotsman offered some ashes to America, who thanked him and did the same.

Wild cries, yells, and screams echoed throughout Boston as the protestors ran down the wharf and over to where the ships were located. Alfred ran from the docks onto the _Eleanor_ , laughing and shouting the loudest among everyone else who boarded. Hundreds of men entered the decks of the three vessels and began destroying the tea.

James Swan joined a group of rioters who immigrated from the same town in Scotland he had, leaving America to join a small group of teenagers participating in the destruction. The boys seemed hesitant to let Alfred join them at first, seeing how he looked younger than they were, but their attitudes changed after they saw the thirteen-year-old lift an entire crate of tea and throw it off of the boat unassisted.

"NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION," America yelled out as the crate met its fate with a prominent splash. His loud cry was met with a hearty "hurrah" from the men dumping tea on the neighboring ship.

Smiling, the teens joined America and happily hacked at the crates of tea and dumped their contents into the salty harbor water below.

Time seemed to fly as the destruction of the cargo continued. Suddenly, an alarm bell sharply rang out across the wharf.

"Redcoats!" Alfred heard a voice cry out.

"Abandon ship!" Came the concerned cry of another rioter.

Patriots started scrambling left and right— a few of them opted to jump off the side of the ship and swim to the dock for a quick getaway. Not willing to plunge into the freezing December water, Alfred ran to the plank connecting _Eleanor_ to the dock and stealthily made his way off of the boat.

"We did it," he triumphantly stated as more men gathered around him on the docks.

Just then, red cladded soldiers ran up to the rioters. As if a silent command had been given, the group dispersed into the shadows–– each man heading in a different direction.

Soldiers closely tailed Alfred, loudly blowing their whistles, probably thinking the smallest boy would be the easiest to detain.

' _Their mistake_ ,' Al snorted, sprinting away from the soldiers.

"Come back here at once!"

"This is treason!"

At that, Alfred turned to face the redcoats, "'If this be treason, make the most of it'!" America laughed, quoting one of his favorite Virginian radicals. Before the soldiers could get too close, the boy started running again. He dodged between the gaps of closed stores, climbed over the fences of different residences, and sprinted through Boston's large network of streets and alleyways all in an effort to lose the men.

Eventually, he found a rogue group of fleeing rioters and joined their rank. They were doing fine sneaking around until a sharp whistle indicated more soldiers spotted them.

"Stop in the name of the King!"

"Halt, I say!"

Of course, the Patriots did nothing of the sort, and America's laughter rang out through the night as he and the other Sons of Liberty evaded capture.

* * *

 _We spent the rest of the evening and early morning running from British soldiers. After today, I doubt I'll ever drink another cup of tea again!_

America finished writing his entry in the comforts of his own Bostonian home. Yawning, he closed his journal, carefully laid it on his nightstand, and blew out the candle lighting his bedroom.

He awoke the next morning before sunrise to prepare for his journey to meet with The Association of Sons of Liberty in New York. It would be a five-day ride at least, and he wanted to be out of Boston before the sun made its way above the ocean's horizon. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Al slipped his white linen shirt over his head and pulled up a clean pair of breeches to his waist.

As America slipped on his riding boots, a loose piece of paper hanging on the edge of the dresser caught his eye. The young boy grabbed the paper and recognized it as the drawing he'd planned on giving England for Christmas. He glanced over at the trash bin… Then shook his head and tightly folded the paper in his hands. Al sighed and tucked the now pointless present into his pocket.

With the minor distraction out of the way, he quickly packed the rest of his provisions and was ready to depart. He fearlessly walked out his home and latched the front door behind him. It locked with a satisfying click.

But instead of heading in the direction of the stables as he planned, America found himself walking down the street toward the docks.

Greeting him upon arrival was an enormous black ship with sailors running across the decks preparing for the voyage to Great Britain. Men on the dock carried supplies to and from the ship's cargo hold all the while a certain English gentleman oversaw the process.

Some part of Al begged him to run out and hug Arthur like he used to— back when he could fool settlers into thinking he was only five or six. But that had been a long, long time ago... everything was different now. England no longer put America on his hip and promised 'He'd be back before he knew he was gone'. And America no longer tallied each day England was away. He was thirteen in the eyes of mortals. He needed to act like it.

Then why, _why_ , did America suddenly feel his feet stepping closer to where England was standing. Maybe it was because he could see the way his mentor expectantly looked at each spectator walking by. Maybe it was because Alfred wanted to yell at Arthur and tell him to never come back. Maybe it was because deep down America still wanted everything to be all right between him and England. Whatever the reason, Alfred was now standing in front of Arthur, who'd only acknowledged Al's presence with a curt nod— although America was positive he saw a glimmer of relief in England's green eyes.

In the distance, the first rays of sunlight began to peek up over the ocean.

Arthur and Alfred were both still mad at each other… Anyone with a penny's worth of common sense could tell. The empire and the colony were both stiff as they waited for either one of them to say...

something…

everything...

anything.

Wordlessly, they both embraced in a tight hug.

"I hope when we meet again it's under more cheerful circumstances," Britain quietly said.

"Me too," America breathed out, burying his head into Arthur's chest, "Goodbye, England."

"Goodbye, America," England solemnly replied as he slowly broke off their hug and turned to board the Europe-bound vessel.

In that moment, if Arthur had truly known when next they'd meet, he would have never let his little brother go.

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I'm definitely going the historical** **fiction** **route with this fanfic. I will do my best to keep things accurate, but I can't guarantee everything will be 100% correct! It's going to be more of a story than a lecture (I'm hoping anyway).**

 **If Chapter 1 had a credits song it would be "We Were So Close" from the Frozen OST. Sad, slow, and subdued— perfect for a quick farewell at the docks of the Massachusetts Bay Colony.**

 **•The Boston Tea Party happened December, 16th 1773… the fic just opens the next day**

 **•The Boston Latin School was the first school opened in the United States** **Isaac Townsend was an actual constable in Boston in 1773 that I came across while reading "Documents of the City of Boston, Volume 3". I couldn't find anything indicating that he was directly involved with the Boston Tea Party, but I still wanted to reference a random person a part of America's history.**

 **•Francis Akeley was the ONLY guy to be imprisoned in the aftermath of the Boston Tea Party… I guess he skipped arts and crafts day at the Sons of Liberty meetings.**

 **•According to The Old South Meeting House Museum, Dr. Thomas Young was really asked to stall the crowd with his speech on 'The Ill Effects of Tea on the Constitution' xD**

 **•James Swan was an actual Sons of Liberty member!**

 **•Thomas Hutchinson was a huge Loyalist and the Governor of the Massachusetts Bay Colony at that time… untiiiilll he was replaced by the British appointed Governor, Thomas Gage, who would usher in the "Coercive Acts". The Acts would of course be known under a different name here in America, but that's a chapter for another time…**

 **Updates will be sporadic (if ever) as I'm a starving student hard-pressed for time. A special thank you to my wonderful friends for test reading the chapter :D**

 **Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

_March 31st, 1774_

 _I never realize how much I miss New York until I return again. Thankfully my time here hasn't been lonely. John Jay, a long time Patriot and friend, has been gracious enough to let me stay at his estate in the city these past few months. Lately, from what I can tell, he's grown fond of a lady named Sara–_

The front door wildly swung open and hit the wall with a loud _BANG_. Alfred looked up from his chair and saw his host furiously stomp inside. "Ameri–," John Jay cleared his throat and began again quieter, " _Alfred_ , have you read this?" He practically shoved a sheet of paper into the boy's face and started pacing across the room.

"'The Boston Port Act'?" Al read aloud. He rolled his head back and let out a long sigh, "Is this another set of taxes?"

"Keep reading, keep reading," John said, still pacing back and forth.

America cleared his throat. "'An Act to discontinue, in such manner, and for or such time as are therein mentioned, the landing and discharging, lading or shipping, of goods, wares, and merchandise, at the town, and within the harbor, of Boston.'"

He felt his heartbeat quicken as he continued reading and nearly crumpled the pamphlet once he'd finished.

"The British are—"

"—taking control of Boston, yes."

Alfred ran his hands through his hair and slumped back. 'One man won't be good enough for Parliament indeed,' he bitterly thought.

John pulled up a chair next to Alfred. "I've always considered myself a moderate, but this is…" he paused to collect his thoughts, "Maybe you should head back to Boston."

Al frowned and tilted his head to the side.

"Forgive me, I still don't understand how—" John gestured up and down Alfred's figure "— _you_ work, maybe no mortal man will ever, but I do know everything seems to go right whenever you're around."

America looked down at his feet and sank deeper into the back of his chair.

"I can't. The English–– um, _person_ like me is having his men watch the Bostonians I'm closest to." Al fiddled with his thumbs, unsure of what else to say.

"Anyone I'm seen with there will only make them a target," he continued, "I'm stuck in New York until I figure out what to do."

"Well, you're always welcome in my home," said the twenty-something, reaching out to pull Al into an awkward side-hug.

"Thanks, John." Al tonelessly replied. The colony smirked and locked his hands together like a love-struck maiden, "Does Sarah Van Brugh Livingston know just how sweet you are?"

"Sarah," John Jay's faced flushed as he cleared his throat, " _Miss Livingston_ , is of no concern to a young boy like yourself."

Al defensively crossed his arms. "I'm older than I look!"

"Indeed. Yet you're _still_ the most naive boy I know," John said, hugging the little American even tighter.

Al rolled his eyes and huffed. ' _Maybe this whole 'Boston Port Act' will blow over,'_ he hopefully reasoned with himself, ' _it's not like it can get any worse.'_

Oh, but it could.

Two additional acts were added in May that dissolved Massachusetts' government and took away any power their justice system held. Clearly, an example was being made of the Massachusetts Bay Colony, and this deeply troubled the colonists in the remaining twelve. The final straw came after a fourth act in June.

' _So now I need to house and feed the soldiers_ punishing _me?!'_ America lamented as he read through his collection of the Coercive Acts for the fifth time, ' _Didn't I just go through this ten years ago?!'_

"If you keep reading the Intolerable Acts you'll get sick," a voice sitting next to America warned. The blonde rolled his eyes and dismissed the large man with a wave of his hand.

Some of the colonists had started calling the "Coercive Acts" the "Intolerable Acts", and Al's only solace over these past few months (besides John and Sarah's marriage in April) was that the nickname spread.

"Not now Herc, I'm busy fueling my hate," he replied, feverishly reading the lines of text over and over.

America was sitting inside a cozy tavern somewhere in downtown New York City. The atmosphere in the room felt mysterious and welcoming, but Al still preferred Sam Adams' malthouse to this place. While this bar did have its fair share of rowdy Patriots, nothing compared to the absolute riveting energy that came from Boston. America shook his head and frowned; getting his daily fix of patriotism wasn't why he found himself at this particular establishment today.

After spending nearly eight months in the city, it was time to say goodbye to Manhattan and the Sons of Liberty who called this island home.

Whispers in the group reported that delegates from across the colonies were heading to Philadelphia for a secret meeting regarding their grievances with Great Britain. If discovered, the men involved would no doubt be hung for treason. John Jay was among the delegates elected to represent New York and as soon as he arrived with a stagecoach, America would travel with him to attend the gathering.

' _After all, it would be hard to have a meeting about the colonies without me.'_

While America thought this, a hand reached out and snatched the Intolerable Acts from him. He angrily looked up at the perpetrator and saw that it was the same man who'd spoken to him earlier: Hercules Mulligan.

"Trust me," Mulligan said, struggling to avoid the boy's desperate attempts at stealing the papers back, "this is for your own good Alf!"

The little American let out an annoyed sigh before _letting_ Hercules keep his copy of the Intolerable Acts. Mr. Mulligan did have a point, but it didn't stop Al from glaring at the tailor.

With a triumphant smile, Hercules folded the acts and placed them safely into his front pocket. He tucked a few rogue strands of red hair behind his ear before addressing Alfred again.

"Are you ready for your trip to Philadelphia?" he asked, trying to get the colony to focus on something else.

Al nodded and placed a satchel on the bar counter. "I've got the essentials packed in here, and I'm sure I can find some money hidden around my house once I get to Philadelphia."

"You have a house in Philly too?!" Mulligan nearly choked on his drink. "Alfred, you've got to be the richest vagabond I know."

The blonde shrugged. "It was a childhood home, so it's not technically mine––"

A gentle ring from the door welcomed a new customer into the tavern. America and Hercules turned in their seats to see John Jay striding towards them, ever looking the part of a lawyer on a mission.

"All set, Mr. Jones?" John asked after greeting Mulligan.

"As ready as I'll ever be!" America happily replied as he all but leaped off of the barstool.

"Very good," John said, straightening his jacket. "I'll pick up something for the road while you finish up your goodbyes."

A few farewells later, America quickly stepped up into a carriage with John following close behind.

"Next stop, Philadelphia!" Al exclaimed.

The New York cityscape slowly morphed into an untamed countryside, and after a few uneventful days, a new city came into view through the carriage window.

America eagerly sat up on his knees to get a better look outside. It was a cool afternoon, and the town's children were out running and playing. Horses trotted down the streets while men and women politely greeted each other along the walkways. Philadelphia was a lively city and it was soon going to host one of the most important gatherings in America's life.

The carriage came to a stop outside a small building John Jay had called 'Carpenters' Hall'. The remaining New York delegates were gathered outside of the building and tipped their hats towards John and Alfred as the pair dismounted the carriage.

America confidently climbed the steps that lead to the building's entrance. "Here we go," he said quietly before pushing open the large, white door.

The interior of the hall had tile flooring and a chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. In one end of the room, green tablecloths covered several small tables set up in a half circle pattern around one large head table. Alfred could tell the inside of Carpenters' Hall was spacious, but a large number of men gathered inside made the room seem much more cramped that it was.

Everyone in the room seemed to segregate themselves by colony. All the delegates eyed each other suspiciously, none of them were willing to branch out and talk to each other just yet. Scanning the room for a second time, Alfred saw—

"Sam!" America ran up to Sam Adams and held him high off of the ground in a tight hug.

"Alfred?" Sam choked out, looking a little uncomfortable at being lifted from the ground, "It's good to see you."

"I'm sure you remember my cousin," he continued once his feet were firmly on the floor again. He gestured to the man beside him who was still getting over the shock of witnessing Alfred's strength.

Al turned and grinned. "Of course— John Adams," he eagerly took the older man's hand, "I think I read about you in 1770."

"Must've been after he defended those redcoats in court," Sam muttered.

John Adams rolled his eyes. "For the last time, _Samuel_ , defending oneself against a _mob_ isn't a crime!"

"Their 'defense' was a _massacre_!"

America tiptoed away from the arguing cousins, feeling partly responsible for ushering in the dispute.

Alfred had been in Charleston during the Boston Massacre, and a strange dream was the only indication he had that something went wrong in one of the colonies. America set out for Boston as soon as news of what had happened reached South Carolina.

Someone standing near him cleared their throat and Al turned to see an older, wealthy-looking gentleman with bright eyes and a clean-shaven, oval face staring at him.

"John Dickinson of Pennsylvania," the man said, tipping his tricorn hat as he spoke.

"The Thirteen Colonies of British North America," Alfred proudly said as he rocked back on his heels. "Most people just call me 'Al' though," he politely held out his hand.

John Dickinson let out a light laugh as he shook the boy's hand. "Yes, I'm aware of who you are. Though I must admit when I first learned of _nationhood_ I was a bit skeptic… taking an oath of secrecy over a supposed "immortal being" seemed more than a little unconventional. But seeing you now… Yes, there is something different about you, Mr. Jones."

America honestly wasn't sure what to make of the exchange, so he just continued to politely smile and nod his head as the wealthy politician spoke.

"I have good faith that this Congress will be able to reconcile with Great Britain. Though there are some," Dickinson shot a dark glance towards the northern delegates, "who seem to think otherwise."

The contempt the older man had in his voice for the northern colonies caused a ripple of worry to pulse through America.

"When is the meeting starting?" he quickly asked.

"As soon as the delegates from New Jersey discover that Congress is being held in Carpenters' Hall."

Almost as soon as Dickinson said this, the front door wildly swung open and five men hastily entered the room while profusely apologizing for their tardiness. The New Jersey delegates now brought the total number of men gathered to 56.

"Since New Jersey is here, we can _finally_ begin," Peyton Randolph, the elected President of the Continental Congress, called out. "Please everyone, take your seats."

A momentary hush came over the room as the delegates shuffled around to find their places. Alfred had a seat next to the president and secretary at the head table. He absentmindedly rubbed his chest–– it felt hollow. The table where the Georgian delegates were supposed to sit was completely empty. ' _That's right, no one from that colony's coming,'_ America frowned.

"The Continental Congress is now in session," Randolph called out again, "on this day of September 5th, 1774."

Patrick Henry, a Virginian Alfred recognized, confidently stood to address those in the room. "The distinctions between Virginians, Pennsylvanians, New Yorkers, and New Englanders are no more," the man passionately spoke, "I am not a Virginian, but an American!"

Henry's announcement brought a joyful smile to America's face. Unity was something that all of the colonists needed right now. Alfred's joy would soon be dashed though, as it seemed no one in Congress was able to agree on how to respond to the Intolerable Acts. And, unfortunately for America, this led to lots _and lots_ of arguments.

The arguing went on for hours. Soon, the hours melted into days and the days melted into weeks. Before long, Alfred found himself in the agonizing loop of waking up, walking to Carpenters' Hall, listening to Congress argue, and trekking back home feeling useless.

A brief respite from the never-ending cycle came a few times a day during the Congresses' recess. Alfred tried to meet as many delegates as he could during the breaks, and he'd even managed to become good friends with a few of them. Something about growing closer to his congressional members made America feel stronger, and he knew he was going to need all the strength in the world to survive _another_ week in Congress.

Al watched as a candle slowly melted in front of him–– it was honestly more fun to do that than listen to John Dickinson and John Adams argue about the same topic for the thousandth time.

"We should seek a peaceful solution to our grievances with the Crown. Why walk a path of violence when a different route is readily available?"

"Violence cannot be avoided! Massachusetts' government has been suspended— our entire colony is under martial law! Are you all so thick-headed as to think that your own colonies aren't next?!"

"All that we are asking is to simply be patient and petition King George for a redress. He _will_ listen to us–– we're British citizens after all."

"Every _sane_ man in this room knows that the King will not lend an ear to us! Can you not get that through your thick Quaker skull?!"

 _BAM_. _BAM_.

The president of the Continental Congress forcefully struck his mallet and stood to address the men. "This session will continue civilly or not at all," Randolph warned.

Both of the fuming delegates held each other's gaze with all the contempt they could muster before withdrawing to their seats.

A man from South Carolina cleared his throat and stood up.

"The president recognizes Mr. Edward Rutledge from South Carolina," said the president, motioning for the delegate to speak.

"The delegates representing South Carolina believe it would be most advantageous to hear Mr. Jones' thoughts on the matter."

All eyes turned to Alfred who'd suddenly snapped to attention after hearing his name. It felt strange to have so many people looking at him after the weeks of nonstop debate.

"After all," Rutledge continued, "the boy did tell me that one of the roles of a personification is to guide their people. And it is abundantly clear to me, as I'm sure every man in this room will agree, that this Congress is in the need of guidance."

"Very well," the president agreed, "Mr. Jones, the floor is yours."

America, still in shock from being put on the spot, slowly stood up. "U-um, I..." he nervously stammered.

He calmly breathed in and tried to remember every negotiation strategy and argument tactic England had drilled into him over the years. " _Straight face, America. Don't give them any reason to doubt you,"_ he could almost hear England say.

America cleared his throat and began again, this time a little stronger, "We need a compromise."

The boy paused, taking the time to look at each man before continuing.

"A message should be sent to the King explaining our objections to the Intolerable Acts," America confidently began. The middle and southern delegates seemed delighted with their personification's resolve.

"In the meantime," he continued, "each colony needs to raise a militia… just in case we're ignored." The northern delegates looked visibly relieved after hearing Alfred say that.

"If our grievances are addressed, then we simply disband the militia. But if they are not, we'll have a way of enforcing boycotts and resisting British soldiers… What say you?"

* * *

"I helped bring a compromise!" America yelled to his empty house and slammed the door behind him.

"Granted," he took off his coat and hung it on a hook, "it took a few weeks–– but I still did it!"

He ran into his room, fell laughing onto his bed, and hugged his pillow. "And at the first EVER Continental Congress too!"

"I actually helped my colonists _stop_ fighting–– England would be so proud!"

Al jumped off his bed, ran over to his desk, found a quill, and quickly grab a piece of paper. He dipped his pen a few times in ink and tried to think of what to tell Arthur.

"I'll tell him I… I…"

Realization struck the young American just as his pen touched the parchment sheet.

"… I helped bring a peaceful compromise to an illegal gathering of delegates who met behind King George III's back."

America crumpled the paper into a tiny ball and threw it across his bedroom.

' _England will find out everything himself once Congress sends that letter to the King,'_ Alfred dejectedly thought as walked back to bed, ' _I don't think England would care that I helped Congress… Even if it was because of what he taught me.'_

America pulled his bedsheets up to his neck. But just before falling asleep, he decided to reach for his journal.

 _October 14th, 1774_

 _The final session of the Continental Congress will begin in a few days. The delegates have decided to draft the "Declaration and Resolves of the First Continental Congress" and send it to the King–– the letter should be completed by the end of the week. Congress also called for a second congressional meeting in May if no progress is made. Until then, all we can do is await a response._

* * *

England furrowed his brows as he read the closing line of the letter that had just arrived from the American colonies. ' _I thought I told you to put an end the madness,'_ the empire's frustration was starting to give him a headache, ' _not threaten to halt all trade unless the King concedes to your ultimatum._ '

England looked over at King George who looked tight-jawed and deep in thought.

"It seems as though these 'delegates' have established a shadow government in my colonies," King George said in a low voice.

"A good scare is all they need to remind them where their loyalties lie," England replied, "I will have a ship ready to sail to North America by tomorrow morning."

"That won't be necessary," the King walked over to a large window adjacent to his throne, "I need you to meet with Governor Hastings in Bengal."

England was taken aback by the statement, but he expertly kept his composure. "You want me to go to India?" the nation clarified.

"There's been a growing amount of gang activity threatening our spice routes, and it needs to be dealt with immediately and _permanently_."

Arthur kept his expression neutral as he let his King's words sink in.

"I will deal with the American colonists myself," King George continued, "I'll await your swift return from Bengal once the matter there is settled."

"I will leave right away, Your Majesty," England respectfully bowed before sharply turning on his heels and exiting the throne room.

' _Bengal,'_ he irritably thought as he walked through the palace corridors.

Being ordered to go to India at a time like this was _mad––_ Arthur knew it… but he also knew that it couldn't be helped.

The empire sighed. Whatever was going on with his colony would have to wait.

And yet, something in the pit of his stomach warned him that he was about to sail off in the wrong direction.

* * *

America rubbed the beads of sweat from his forehead and happily hummed to himself as he bent over to polish a pair of boots. He could hardly believe that the Continental Congress disbanded almost six months ago, it seemed like only days had gone by since he bid his delegates farewell…

 _A man ran his hands over Alfred's blonde hair and pulled him into a tight hug. "I'll be seeing you again, I'll be seeing you again if my name isn't Richard Henry Lee," the overly excited Virginian proclaimed as he patted the boy's back. Another Virginian delegate, George Washington, quietly watched the scene unfold and gently placed a hand on Lee's shoulder to suggest that they leave._

 _America was still looking a little dazed when Sam Adams and John Hancock walked up to him._

" _Farewell, America," Hancock said, "Adams and I are heading up to Lexington–– we've become a bit too recognizable in Boston. Do you have any idea where you're heading next?"_

" _I want to be a minuteman," America said. "I'll settle down in any colony with a militia that'll take me."_

 _Sam placed a hand under his chin. "We might just have someone in Massachusetts crazy enough to train a thirteen-year-old…" he thought aloud._

"–– _As long as you promise to keep the fighting to the older men," Hancock quickly added, almost chastising Sam for putting the thought in America's mind._

" _I'd love to go back to Massachusetts!"_

" _You'll promise to keep out of fighting though, right America?" John Hancock looked squarely at the boy._

" _Oh of course," Alfred innocently replied, crossing his fingers behind his back._

America finished shining the shoes and swung his rag over his shoulder. "Thanks, lad," his customer said, flipping Al a copper coin. The boy caught it with ease and politely thanked the man.

He pulled a small bag out from his pocket and added the new coin inside. He'd done little odd jobs from shoe shining, to mending clothing (' _The only good thing to come from the hours of my embroidery lessons with Arthur,'_ he thought), to delivering packages all across the town–– anything to make a little money to help pay back Isaac Davis for agreeing to train him.

Isaac Davis was the militia leader of Acton and a talented gunsmith of 30 years old. He had wavy golden hair and a face with a long nose and dark eyes. Davis looked like he could've been related to Alfred.

Alfred was, or rather _looked_ , only a few years older than Isaac's eldest child, and the colony was treated just as if he was another son. Mrs. Davis fretted over Al the most out of her children. She would constantly groom his hair or straighten his jacket and would always try to coax him into staying with them in their home. Every once in a while, Al would agree to stay for dinner (which would relieve Mrs. Davis) and spend the evening playing with the four Davis children.

It was nice to pretend he had a family like any other colonial child. Even if deep down, America knew the illusion of a normal life wouldn't last.

Alfred looked up and noticed the sun had risen high into the sky. He'd need to make his way to Davis' house quickly if he wanted to make it on time for the militia's daily training routine. Isaac trained every man in the Acton militia on makeshift shooting range behind his house. The gunsmith emphasized the importance of speed and accuracy during training, and it was no secret that the men of Acton were the best of the best because of their captain.

Isaac Davis let out a low whistle as he watched Al steadily aim his musket and hit the farthest targets with ease. "It looks like we've got the makings of a prodigy marksman on our hands," he said, offering Al a supportive pat on the back, "I'd hate to be on the other end of your gun–– especially if you get your hands on a better weapon."

"Jones!" one of Davis' men ran up to him, "Some of the boys are going down to Lexington tonight… Do you want to join us?"

Alfred looked at Captain Davis.

"We could really use that arm of yours," the militiaman continued, "We figure we could make a pretty penny wagering on the strongest arm wrestler in all of Massachusetts."

Davis smiled and slowly nodded.

Al strapped his musket behind his back. "I'm in!" he exclaimed, waving goodbye to the captain.

Much later that evening, Alfred awoke with a start. His heart was beating fast as he looked around panicked and confused at the sleeping figures around him. Alfred and a few of the Minutemen from Acton and Lexington had taken up lodging at Buckman Tavern for the night. It had been a fun evening filled with laughter and storytelling earlier, but now something felt wrong.

' _Something's coming.'_

The nightmare Alfred had just woken from was strange–– bells ringing, gunshots firing in the air, two lit lanterns, the sound of galloping horses –– it was nonsensical, yet it filled Alfred with worry.

Suddenly, he heard a voice shouting out in the distance, "To arms— to arms! The regulars are coming!" The cry slowly became louder as whoever was shouting got closer to the tavern.

Al ran outside to investigate. A few men who'd woken because of the commotion followed the boy, though they were much sluggish and slower.

The source of the shouting came from a lone man riding a horse. He was hitting the sides of houses, trying to rouse everyone inside, and repeated his message over and over again.

The rider noticed Alfred and the group of minutemen standing outside of Buckman Tavern and urged his horse over to where they were. "Do any of you know where I can find John Hancock or Samuel Adams?" he asked. "The British are planning on capturing them here and then destroying our munition in Concord!"

"They're staying further down the road," called out a new voice, quickly followed by the sound of a large number of footsteps. Alfred turned to see John Parker, the captain of the Lexington militia, and a group of 80 or so men traveling behind him.

The rider nodded his head and with a quick kick, he galloped off in the direction Parker had pointed.

Parker looked down at Alfred and seemed to be studying him. "You must be that boy from Acton I've heard so much about."

"Alfred F. Jones," Alfred said. "Do you need any help defending Lexington?"

"We can certainly use all the help we can get," Captain Parker said.

And just like that, the Minutemen got to work. The Lexington militia spent the remainder of the early morning preparing to intercept the soldiers marching towards their tiny town to prevent them from reaching Concord. At around 4:30 in the morning, the steady sound of beating drums announced that the British had arrived.

"Do not fire unless fired upon," Parker said as his militia began to form their ranks, most of the men were visibly shaking, "but if you mean to have war, let it begin here."

The two opposing lines stared tensely at each other and held their muskets firmly in their hands, ready to fire at a moments notice.

Suddenly, a single gunshot pierced through the silence. It sounded like lightning had struck. America didn't know which side shot first, no one did, and no one ever would.

A strange sensation began to flow through America's veins–– it was a cocktail of adrenaline, fear, determination, and … fire? He wasn't sure what the last feeling was. ' _War,'_ a primal instinct whispered from deep within him, ' _you are at war.'_

The lone shot had officially ignited America's Revolution.

Someone started to violently shake Alfred out of his daze. Through his muddled mind, he was able to hear someone calling his name. "Jones?! Jones! We need to retreat now!"

"...Retreat?" he was still woozy from this new form of sensory overload.

The militiaman began to pull Alfred backward and away from the battle. Al could see men lying motionless on the ground–– eight in all. Seeing the bodies sobered America up and he shrugged off the man and ran to find Captain Parker.

Alfred found John Parker at the front of the group leading the men safely into the thick forest that surrounded Lexington. A man suffering from a shot to the leg was tucked protectively under the captain's arm.

"I doubt the British stay in Lexington for long," Alfred apprehensively crossed his arms, "we need to tell Concord what's coming."

"Messengers traveled all night to warn Concord of the coming attack," Parker paused to adjust his grip on the wounded soldier. "We did have some reports of British blockades on the road, but I'm sure at least someone got through."

Alfred nervously ran his hands back through his hair. "We won't know that until it's too late–– I'll go warn Concord," he suddenly decided. "I know these woods better than anyone!"

"Al, no, you're going to get killed!"

But the boy had already taken off running.

"Al?! Alfred come back!"

America arrived at Concord a few hours later, completely out of breath, and still just as panicked as when the gunshot that sparked this whole mess was fired off. He looked around and was relieved to see that the city was at least preparing for battle. From the look of things, other militia groups had already begun rallying just outside of the town.

' _I guess a messenger was able to get through after all,'_ Alfred thought, allowing himself to relax momentarily.

"Courage men, this is what we've been training for," a familiar voice rang out in the distance.

' _Captain Davis?!'_ Alfred thought as he quickly ran off in the direction the voice had come from.

"Captain Davis!" he called, running through a group of men.

"Alfred?" Isaac Davis looked at America as he ran up to him, "I thought you were in Lexington."

"British… outnumbered… eight dead…" Alfred tried desperately to catch his breath. He bent over and put his hands on his knees. "...Trying to take our munition."

Captain Davis placed a supporting hand on Alfred's shoulder. "Calm down m' boy," he gently spoke, "We let it 'slip' to some of the loyalists in town where our arms were hidden... And let's just say the British have been on a wild goose chase for quite some time."

America breathed a sigh of relief, it looked like things were finally beginning to turn around.

"You ran here all the way from Lexington, huh," Isaac Davis mused, "you must be dying for a rematch… We're heading to the Old North Bridge. We can't let the British continue to hold that position."

Alfred reached back for his gun and loaded it just how Davis had taught him. "I'm with you," he said, trying to push any fear he had to the back of his mind.

The battle at the bridge resulted in a victory for the Patriots. The British soldiers on the other side of the bridge managed to fire off a few volleys, but it wasn't enough to stop the five companies of minutemen charging into the bridge.

"Looks like we did took the bridge, Davis," Al said. There was no reply.

Alfred looked behind him and couldn't see Captain Davis. Then, the corner of his eye, he noticed a man lying on the ground suffering from a bullet wound in his chest. It was Isaac.

"No, no," Alfred muttered as he knelt down and desperately tried to stop the blood spilling out from Isaac's chest, "no, no…"

The colony applied more pressure to the wound but thick pools of blood continued to seep out from between his trembling fingers. Alfred's hands and sleeves were stained red with Isaac's blood, but the colony was too focused on his task to notice.

"Alfred," The captain coughed out, his voice sounded wet and strained, "Al, it's ok…"

Alfred defiantly shook his head; he wasn't going to let this man die. "You're going to be alright sir— you just need to hold on…"

Isaac tried to move his head but was too weak to manage even such a minor task. His blood loss was beginning to take a toll. The officer had minutes left at most, but even _that_ was pushing it. The captain knew his fate. He motioned for the boy to move closer to him.

Alfred, out of all other options, obliged and carefully placed Isaac's torso across him and cradled his captain's head in his arms

Isaac looked up at Alfred. The officer's face melted from pained into an almost curious expression as he looked deeper at the boy. "Your eyes… it's like..." Isaac gasped. Alfred's true identity was clear to the colonist— the personification could sense it.

America's voice broke as he weakly muttered apologies to the dying man lying across his lap.

"Shh, don't be sorry," Davis spoke slowly, almost like he was falling asleep, "I can think of no sweeter death than to slip from this world in the arms of my Home."

A sharp sting, deeper than anything Al felt before, pierced through him as he listened to Isaac Davis exhale for the last time.

Someone ran up behind Alfred. "Captain Davis…?"

"Dead." Alfred sharply replied, gingerly laying Isaac's head down on the soft grass.

"Our captain is dead… What do we do?" the militiaman asked. A small number of men started to gather around Al, the same question was burning in their minds.

America looked at the retreating redcoats in the distance and angrily stood up. He bit down on his powder cartridge and reloaded his musket.

"We chase those soldiers all the way back to Boston and keep 'em there."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **And they did. A thirteen year old militiaman actually wouldn't have been strange to see since that's about the time colonial boys would come of age. I figured Al's delegates wouldn't want him fighting though. If Chapter 2 had a credits song it would be "Not A Real Cop" from the Zootopia OST. I like the serious and sad vibe its got.**

 **•In America, we called the 'Coercive Acts' the 'Intolerable Acts' because we didn't like them.**

 **•The Intolerable Acts were made up of the Boston Port Act, the Massachusetts Government Act, the Administration of Justice Act, the Quartering Act, and the Quebec Act. I was taught that the colonists were only really upset about the first four.**

 **•John Adams (2nd President) was the lawyer who defended the British soldiers involved in the Boston Massacre. He successfully proved that they were not guilty of any crime.**

•" **Declarations and Resolves" was basically a long letter to the King arguing why the Intolerable Acts were illegal as well as a demand for their removal lest the colonies boycott all British goods and refuse to ship out goods. As it turns out, kings don't like being told what to do.**

•" **The regulars are coming!" None of the midnight riders said "The British are coming" (as popular as that myth is) because then colonists loyal to the Crown would know that the militiamen were going to attack British soldiers.**

 **•Buckman Tavern was an actual meeting place for the Lexington militia and is still in there too.**

 **•Isaac Davis was the first American officer to die in the revolution. A image of him is used on the seal of the US National Guard.**

 **Edward Rutledge was inspired by the actor who played him in the John Adams HBO miniseries and Richard Henry Lee was inspired by his actor from 1776 (1972). On a side note: I've actually been to Carpenters' Hall! It's a pretty place to visit if you're ever in Philadelphia.**

 **Thanks for reading! The reviews on the first chapter were a lovely surprise :D**


	3. Chapter 3

A small bed sharply creaked as Alfred uncomfortably twisted and turned in his sheets. Tiny creases formed around his furrowed brows and his forehead glistened where beads of sweat began to gather.

 _In his mind, he was somewhere else in the colonies. He stood high up on a hill, overlooking Boston across the bay. In front of him, a militia hastily dug into the ground, everyone shivering and mud-soaked. Three men beside Alfred were quietly whispering to one another, their knuckles white as they tightly held their shovels._

" _What's going on?" Al called out, taking the time to look at the other militiamen scurrying about._

 _The men didn't pay him any mind, but the colony shrugged it off— Everyone must've been too preoccupied to notice him._

 _Alfred moved to tug on the sleeve of the closest man, but his hand slipped right through the man's arm. Al tried to reach out again and again to no avail. His hand kept passing through the man… It was like Al had become a ghost._

" _Dig faster men!" A distant voice yelled out, "We should've had this hill fortified before dawn!"_

 _Alfred looked out into the bay and, for the first time, noticed a small cluster of British warships floating menacingly in the waters._

" _Commander! That ship's spotted us; she's preparing to fire!"_

" _Take cover!"_

 _A deafening crack from the cannons rang through the sky and–_

America bolted upright and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He'd felt it. Just as the cannonball hit the earth… he'd actually _felt_ it. He shivered as new pricks of pain radiated throughout his abdomen. None of them were quite as shocking or painful as the first impact, but he was still all too aware of their presence.

Alfred's sheets fell into a pile on the floor as he pulled his knees close to his chest.

"I'm fine… I'm fine," he said, hugging his legs tighter, "I'm okay."

After a few more minutes, the pain lessened and gradually vanished. Or, perhaps, he'd just finally gotten used to it.

Alfred swallowed hard and tried to steady his shaking hands. It wasn't working— he needed to do something with them. The boy brushed his tangled bangs out of his eyes and reached across his nightstand for his journal.

 _June 17th, 1775_

 _Another nightmare._

Alfred scrunched his nose and nibbled at the end of his pencil, trying to think of something else to say, but couldn't think of anything. He didn't have the heart to write. Sighing in defeat, Alfred pushed himself out of bed and headed for the closest window.

He was overreacting. What he'd seen had been nothing more than a bad dream… like the ones he'd gotten after Lexington and Concord.

This was the first time he'd seen a dream so clearly though— let alone felt it.

The low squeak of the window brought Alfred back to reality. He steadily moved the glass pane upwards and peered outside. The sky was still dark, and the surrounding area was almost completely silent. The only noises echoing through the city were the quiet chirping of birds and the pitter-pattering of trotting horses.

Al stifled a yawn and dared to look back at his bed… but there was no way he was going to go to sleep. America didn't want to see— er, he didn't need to go back to sleep. He wasn't tired.

He also wasn't hungry— or at least he realized that after getting dressed and browsing through the kitchen pantry. His stomach was still tangled up in nervous knots, and even the very thought of food made him nauseous.

Alfred frowned and frustratedly ran his hands through his hair as he leaned against the kitchen wall. He couldn't stay here. Maybe going on a walk would help?

He opened the front door and grimaced. It was still early in the morning but stepping through the doorway and into Philadelphia's streets felt like taking a pilgrimage through an oven.

Alfred had been back in the Pennsylvanian city since the beginning of June, attending the Second Continental Congress. He was able to make it through a few meetings before his delegates learned of his involvement in the battles of Lexington and Concord. Most of them had been furious—

" _What would have happened if the British captured you?"_

" _I for one think that the confrontation could've been avoided."_

" _Did you die? Did anyone see you?!"_

—Needless to say, America was no longer allowed near any of the militias.

"Even though they're all technically mine," the boy huffed, weaving through the familiar streets of Philadelphia and heading in no particular direction.

As time went on, more and more people journeyed out from their homes to start their day. The men Alfred saw on the streets politely nodded as they walked by, but it was an otherwise uneventful morning. It was still much too early for a majority of the city to be awake.

Before long, Alfred found himself at the doorsteps of the Pennsylvania state house, the new venue where the Continental Congress had been meeting. He stared up at the large white doors, but he just couldn't bring himself to walk inside the lonely-looking building.

Alfred rested his chin on both his fists as he turned and plopped down on the steps of the statehouse. He wanted to do something more than just sit in meetings all day, but he knew he wasn't back in the good graces of his delegates yet.

"Maybe Congress wouldn't treat me like such a kid if I looked a little older," he sighed, kicking a pebble away from his feet.

"Perhaps if you listened and obeyed the members of your Congress, they'd be more inclined to trust you."

Alfred stiffened, he hadn't expected anyone else to be at the statehouse yet. He glanced up and saw one of the delegates from Virginia looking down at him. The older man fiddled with the sleeves of his blue military uniform–– the same one he'd insisted on wearing to every session in Congress–– and took a seat next to Alfred.

"George Washington," Alfred simply stated, trying his best not to yawn in front of the colonel.

"Good morning, Mr. Jones," the man politely replied.

Washington rarely spoke to America. He rarely spoke during the Continental Congress meetings at all. Instead, he opted to be a passive observer, always deep in thought.

"Have you been sleeping well?" Washington asked.

Alfred leaned back on his hands and nodded, trying to hide his fatigue with a chipper smile. Washington quietly hummed and noted the dark circles gathered under his colony's puffy red eyes. The delegate turned to watch the people walking in the streets; he wouldn't press the matter if the boy didn't want to speak about it.

Eventually, his colony let out a deep sigh.

"I keep thinking about the battles up in Massachusetts," Alfred said, lightly digging his heels into the ground. "Whenever I'm in the northern colonies, I'm certain that what we did was right. But down here… I'm conflicted."

Washington brought his hands under his chin and hummed in a pensive sort of way.

"I'd imagine your hesitancy is due to the influence of the southern delegates," he said. "While the influences of those from the north urge you to fight."

Alfred exhaled as he sat back up again. "I just want to make sure that the lives lost in Massachusetts weren't in vain. Especially because, well––" he stroke the back of his neck, hoping Washington would believe him–– "the Massachusetts militia was attacked again."

"What?"

"I felt it," Alfred continued, "but I doubt we'll hear about it for a few days."

"Were you able to feel who was victorious?"

"I'm… not sure— this is the first time I've ever felt something like this."

Washington thought for a moment.

"The French and Indian War was fought here, did you feel that?"

The boy shook his head.

"I knew it was happening, but it didn't feel like anything."

"It seems losing the protection of the British Empire will take its toll on all of us," Washington noted.

Alfred crossed his arms. He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps Congresses' push for secession was affecting him more than he thought.

The rest of Philadelphia began to stir awake. Murmuring spilled out from the little shops and inns lining the streets around the statehouse, and children screamed and laughed as they ran to the school further up the road. There was a bakery somewhere nearby too– the sweet-smelling pastries were starting to make Alfred's stomach growl… the young colony was relieved to have an appetite again. Maybe he and Washington could finish talking over breakfast.

Alfred faced Washington, but before he could ask the colonel anything, a peculiar detail on Washington's uniform caught his eye.

"You're wearing a black armband," Al nibbled on the side of his lip. "Did someone in your company die?"

Washington shook his head and placed a heavy hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"I wear it to mourn the loss of our militiamen in Lexington and Concord."

The boy quizzically blinked his blue eyes.

"A southerner caring about a northern militia?" He skeptically clarified.

"Unity is key," Washington gestured to the black armband, "I would rather show my support of our brothers in arms in the north through my actions than my words."

* * *

Two days later, a messenger stormed through the door in the middle of a Congressional meeting. The man looked shaken and out of breath, and quickly handed an envelope to the delegates from Massachusetts. There had been an attack on Bunker Hill near Boston. Four hundred militiamen died and the hill was lost. While the battle was a defeat, the militia managed to kill one thousand British soldiers and one hundred of their officers.

The Battle of Bunker Hill ushered in a new debate on whether Congress should create an army to defend the colonies.

"And which _northern_ delegate will you nominate to build up such an army?" One delegate jeered, visibly unhappy with the discussion he was having with John Adams.

John Adams, the main proponent of the creation of a Continental Army, paused for a moment. He knew he needed to select a man that the southerners would approve of… but how? Adams glanced at Alfred sitting expectantly at the head table. An idea popped into the Bostonian's head.

"I move to have America submit a candidate as the commander of the Continental Army, as it is he whom our men will be struggling for," he said.

Some of the congressmen in the room seemed to agree with Adams while others were taken aback by the fact that they were leaving such an important decision in the hands of a scrawny, thirteen-year-old boy. The selection would, of course, be confirmed after a vote, but who would the boy select?

All eyes fell upon Alfred.

To say Alfred was surprised would've been an understatement. He'd enjoyed the Second Continental Congress much more than the previous gathering and tried to make it a point to actively listen to the arguments brought before the Congress. That being said, he'd still grown accustomed to being ignored during the session–– his role in the meetings was more of an honorary one (though some of the men from Rhode Island told Alfred that more progress was made whenever he was a part of the meeting) and his inputs as a personification were rarely needed.

Now, the Thirteen Colonies was faced with an important task: Choosing the man destined to unite his militias under one banner.

Alfred stood and surveyed each delegate in the room.

John Hancock, the newly elected President of the Continental Congress, wanted the position–– America could sense it. However, after sitting next to that vain man at the head table these past few days, Alfred couldn't picture him leading groups of soldiers. He considered Sam Adams, but that wasn't right either.

His mind kept circling back to one candidate, and somewhere deep within he knew it was the right decision.

"Colonel George Washington," Alfred said.

Low murmurs of delegates echoed throughout the room, and chairs created as men turned to gauge Washington's reaction to the nomination.

"Virginia is the most populated colony…" one delegate whispered.

"...And the wealthiest..." added another.

"Yes, this could work," someone nodded.

"I second!" John Adams called out, wasting no time proclaiming his support of Alfred's decision.

After the motion was seconded, George Washington slowly stood up and took a deep breath in. His gray eyes held Alfred's gaze for a moment before turning to focus on the delegates in the room.

"If the Congress sees fit to honor me with the command, it would be my humble duty to serve," Washington stated, offering a humble bow once he'd finished speaking.

A low murmuring of 'hear, hear' and the pounding of desks vibrated throughout the area as Washington exited the room to await the results of the vote.

Less than thirty minutes later, Washington was unanimously appointed the General over the Continental Army.

America hastily grabbed his things and pushed his chair away from the desk. He nearly tripped over his boot laces as he ran to the end of the room, dodging through his delegates as he made his way to the door.

Washington waited at the end of the hallway adjacent to the meeting room, looking outside an opened window. He turned at the sound of an energetic boy running towards him.

Alfred rocked back on his heels before politely holding out his hand.

"Do you accept your appointment, General?"

Washington wore a sad, gentle smile and tightly grasped the blond's outstretched hand.

A sharp jolt ran through Alfred– it was a feeling he couldn't find the words to explain. A warm spark… an invisible link… another heartbeat next to his own.

The more he thought about it, he was sure he could feel George Washington's heart. America had never felt a heartbeat in time with his before— it was a strange sensation– he wasn't even aware of how deep of a connection with a _human_ he was able to have.

"I accept," Washington quietly replied.

Alfred, still perplexed by what he'd just felt, eagerly followed Washington out of the building.

"What are we going to do now?" He asked.

"We're heading up to Cambridge where the Continental Army is waiting."

Alfred rolled back his head and sighed.

"Massachusetts… Pennsylvania… Massachusetts… Pennsylvania," he lamented, "I'm starting to get tired of going back and forth."

"You're more than welcome to remain with Congress until I—"

"No!"

Washington raised a brow. "Well then," he said, "pack up your things and meet me back at the statehouse tomorrow before sunrise. We've got a long journey ahead of us."

The journey to Cambridge went by in a flash. Alfred spent most of the time talking to Washington about life in Virginia, defensive strategies, and what it was like to actually be in a battle. Washington patiently answered even the most outlandish questions from Alfred but reminded the colony he needed to treat him like a general from here on out.

The usually reserved general couldn't hide his disdain upon seeing the state of the 'soldiers' that had awaited him in Cambridge.

No discipline, no hygiene— the men scruffy-looking and disheveled… this had not been what Washington had expected. America didn't seem to notice the state of the soldiers and happily explored the encampment as Washington personally instructed the most rudimentary of tasks.

A few weeks later, Alfred and Washington were both inside Washington's field tent looking over a map of the Boston peninsula. The patriot army had General Thomas Gage and the loyalists he was protecting trapped in Boston— the stalemate had been going on long before Washington arrived in Cambridge— and the patriot forces easily outnumbered the remaining British presence in Massachusetts.

"We could attack through here," Alfred said, tracing a line along the map with his finger.

The General watched as Alfred drew an attack plan on the map, the boy clearly had training in military strategy, though from whom Washington wasn't sure. His colony was overlooking one crucial detail, however…

"Our army lacks sufficient training to engage Gage head-on," Washington said. "We'll need more time before we can mount a successful assault— numbers can only get us so far."

"Furthermore," the general continued, "we don't possess the ammunition necessary for a siege. I've petitioned Congress for more supplies. I'm hoping for a response within the week."

Alfred pursed his lips and paced the length of the tent. He snapped his fingers seconds later and sharply turned in Washington's direction.

"If supplies are what we need, I could lead a small raiding team into Boston and steal supplies. I know this area like the back of my hand, it would be easy!"

The colony's shoulders dropped as he watched his general slowly shake his head.

"Are you really not going to let me fight?" Alfred asked.

"I promised Congress I wouldn't give you more than you can handle."

"I'm not hearing a 'no'~"

The subsequent look from Washington immediately silenced America. Over the past few days, the general had begun to crack down on the unprofessionalism his colony displayed, quickly linking the personification's lackadaisical attitude to that of the soldiers.

"General Washington," a voice called out from the other side of the tent. "General Benedict Arnold has arrived."

"Send him in," Washington called out.

Benedict Arnold marched through the tent's entrance moments later, confidently walking up to Washington and Alfred, and respectfully tipping his hat to both of them.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Benedict said. "I've just arrived from Philadelphia— Congress has approved of an attack on Quebec."

' _Canada?'_ Alfred thought, looking back at Washington. He knew there were talks of sending soldiers up north, but the last he'd heard was that the request to launch a campaign had been denied.

"There've been reports of only six hundred or so regular soldiers in the entire providence of Quebec," Benedict continued. "Guy Carleton, the governor of the providence, sent down reinforcements to Boston earlier in the summer, and, as you know, they're currently all trapped within the city."

Washington placed a hand under his chin and stared at the map in front of him once again. His eyes steadily moved upwards from Boston to the border of Quebec.

"Once the British land in North America, Quebec would be an ideal location for British bases," Washington took a deep breath in, "and it would also serve as an access point into New York— we cannot have that."

Benedict Arnold sharply nodded, relieved to see Washington held the same concerns about Quebec as he did.

"Do I have your permission to go through the camps and raise up troops?" Benedict asked.

Washington nodded.

"Can I go too?" Alfred spoke up.

The generals looked hesitant.

"There's a boy like me up north," Al quickly added before either one of the men could deny his request, "if I could convince him to join us then the Canadian colonists would help us!"

At that, Benedict Arnold seemed very interested.

"Really?" He said. "What's the boy's name? I've done business up in Quebec before, perhaps I've already met this 'new' personification?"

Alfred's eyes widened. "I–I… um—"

"Please forgive General Arnold," Washington pointedly looked at the other general, "he's still learning about proper etiquette regarding the existence of personifications."

"My apologies, Mr. Jones, I meant no ill will," Benedict quietly responded. "It would be my honor to have you accompany me to Quebec."

Alfred perked up and thanked the general.

"If negotiations go awry, I need you back with me in Cambridge," Washington said as his colony prepared to leave.

Alfred nodded, promising to return as quickly as possible, and followed Benedict Arnold out of Washington's tent.

"Do you truly think the other personification will be persuaded to join us?" Benedict asked.

"He's my brother— of course he'll say yes!"

* * *

"No."

"WHAT?!"

' _Mon Dieu_ , does he always need to scream?' Matthew thought as he recoiled from the livid American. His brother's cheeks were flushed red, both from anger and the biting chill of the air. Matthew was surprised to see Alfred on the northern side of their shared border (especially this time of year)–– his twin had always held a special hatred for the cold.

Matthew had been surprised to see so many Americans this far north in general.

Only a handful of days had passed since he narrowly escaped Montreal with his governor, leaving the city at the mercy of the invaders. Matthew bit the side of his lip and shifted his weight as he thought. He'd wanted to stay and defend Montreal, but Guy Carleton insisted they retreated to Quebec City.

Now standing out in the snow-covered edge of that very city was his own brother asking him to rebel against the British Empire.

"Why don't you want to help me?!"

Canada shot a half-lid glance at America.

"Your men _invaded_ Quebec!" He yelled back.

"What is your brother not allowed to visit you anymore or something?"

"Not when he shows up at my house with over one _thousand_ armed soldiers!"

Alfred rolled his eyes and tucked his loose strands of hair behind his ears, it wasn't like Matthew to be this dramatic.

"Yes, with _soldiers_ ," he shot back. "We can't liberate you from the British without them."

Matthew jolted back, rapidly blinking his eyes. He would have laughed if his brother didn't look so serious.

" _Liberate_?" Matthew said. "You've been talking to those rebels Arthur warned you about again, haven't you?"

The Canadian ran his hands through his curly hair and he trudged side to side through the shallow banks of snow.

"I should've known something was up after my colonists were invited to attend that meeting in Philadelphia," he finally said, turning once again to face his brother.

Alfred held his mouth agape, his face grew even redder than before.

"Wait, you got the letters from my Congress and ignored them?"

"Yes! The idea was crazy— what you're doing is crazy! And more than that…" Matthew paused, taking in a deep breath. "It's treason."

"Matt, my people's rights have been violated— we're tired of being treated like sub-citizens by a faraway king."

Matthew released a breath and folded his arms, his brother needed to calm down.

"So you're not going to do anything?" Alfred accused.

"Please, just go home America," Matthew gently replied, "I don't want any trouble."

"Fine, Canada." His brother said with as much venom as he could muster. " _ **I**_ will leave.".

Matthew didn't like what his brother just implied and watched as Alfred gave a mock bow and walked back into the forest. He and Alfred were nearly identical on the outside, but it seemed now more than ever their similarities only ran skin-deep.

The Canadian tightened his scarf around his neck, this winter was going to be rough.

The formidable gates of Quebec City were quickly locked behind him as he reentered the city. The walls of the city were fortified and strong, the Americans would have a hard time getting past the Canadian defenses. The city inside was anything but formidable, however. The people were scared.

Matthew weaved through his concerned colonists— both ethnic French and English alike— making his way down the main path from St. John's gate to the governor's house in the middle of the city.

The heavy doors of the large house creaked as Matthew pushed past them and loudly slammed shut as he made his way towards Carleton's office.

His governor was hunched over a desk, rapidly penning something down onto a sheet of paper.

"(What did they want?)" Carleton asked without looking up.

French? Matthew was confused for a moment— his governor was an Englishman after all— but he figured Carleton's switch to his mother tongue was his attempt at trying to make him feel better about the whole ordeal.

"(The Americans want the city to surrender)," Matthew replied, handing his governor a letter from Alfred's general he'd received during his conversation with his brother.

"(Quebec will do no such thing)," Carleton stated, only glancing over the first few lines of the outlandish request.

He held the letter up to a candle in the middle of the desk. The sheet of paper was nothing more than a pile of ashes in a matter of seconds.

Matthew confidently nodded, but his mind was racing. He knew the basics battle tactics from his years spent learning under England, but he hadn't anticipated using them against his brother's forces.

He shook the nervousness from his head— he needed to focus.

"(How many soldiers do we have?)"

"(Not enough)," Carleton replied, he'd finally finished whatever he'd been working on and met Matthew's violet eyes.

"(But I'm going to raise a militia)," he continued, "(We need to prepare while the Americans are still busy planning their attack)."

Matthew's governor quickly stood up and motioned for the boy to take a seat at the now vacant desk.

"(I'll go inform the city of what's happening)," he said. "(I need you to map out the weak points of the city— I'm sure you know it at a deeper level than any mortal— any place where the Americans would try to attack. We'll fortify those areas first. I'll be back soon)."

And with that, Guy Carleton briskly exited the office.

Letting out a disappointed sigh, Canada reached across the desk for a clean sheet of paper.

* * *

 _Dear Arthur Kirkland,_

 _The American colonists have invaded Canada and are desperately trying to conquer Quebec. I'm sure Parliament will receive a more detailed account of what's happening by the time you receive my letter, but rest assured I am fine. I tried to reason with Alfred, but he's made it clear the troops stationed in Canada will not leave until either I concede to his folly of a crusade or the Canadian forces are defeated._

 _These times are arduous, but I'm not the pushover my brother believes I am— I have full confidence in my men's ability to repel the American advances on Quebec City. However, if it is at all possible, additional soldiers would be greatly appreciated._

 _Hoping for your support,_

 _Matthieu Williams_

* * *

Arthur Kirkland tightly gripped the letter in his hands. The empire could hardly believe what he'd just read. He knew America was having temper tantrums up and down the continent— the British Empire could feel that much for himself— but invading Canada to ask for support resisting _him_?

This wasn't the news he'd wanted to hear merely a day after returning from Bengal.

Arthur looked up, someone was knocking at his door. He straightened his coat collar and went to open the door. A man waited on the other side and humbly bowed before he spoke.

"Sir Kirkland? His Royal Majesty requests and audience with you immediately."

Arthur thanked the man and walked from his chambers in the direction of to the throne room, his anger increasing with every step.

' _I've spent months traveling to and from India, only to finally arrive home and learn that the unpleasantries in the colony have escalated,'_ he bitterly thought.

He stopped in front of a grand-looking door and took a moment to compose himself before nodding at the door attendant, signaling to the man to let him in the throne room.

There was a small audience of aristocrats and nobles gathered inside, talking in small clusters in the various corners of the grand hall. A few of the guests tried to get Arthur's attention, but he brushed passed them and marched straight for King George sitting on the throne at the end of the room.

"Sir Kirkland," the king said, watching as Arthur stopped just at the edge of the steps of the throne's raised pomp.

"I hear your mission in Bengal was a success."

Arthur briefly went over all that had transpired in India and quickly shifted the conversation over to the matters of the North American colonies. King George's face darkened as he explained to Arthur all that had happened in the colonies while he was away. General Gage had been dismissed and replaced by General William Howe after failing to gain any ground in Boston, a fleet had been dispatched in October to assist the loyalists trapped within the Boston peninsula, and a letter entitled 'The Olive Branch Petition' arrived from the rebel's "Congress" a handful of weeks prior.

Arthur raised a curious brow.

"The 'Olive Branch Petition'?"

"Pathetic isn't it?" The king waved a dismissive hand. "Building up a militia… hiding munitions… invading Canada. This 'olive branch' was merely a ruse to buy more time for the rebels to fortify their army. It's a waste of time to even read it."

"And what does the Prime Minister think?"

"He's disregarded it as well, and rightfully so."

The nation took a moment to let everything sink in. He closed his eyes and breathed out, slowly coming to terms with what needed to be done. He looked back up at the king again.

"Well then, our first course of action should be providing reinforcements to the colonists in Quebec. Once I rendezvous with Howe in North America I'll raise a regiment to…"

Arthur's voice slowly trailed off. King George was shaking his head. _Why_ was he shaking his head? Arthur could feel his composure slipping.

"You won't be going to the colonies—"

"Like _hell_ I won't!"

There was a collective gasp among the other guests in the room. The following silence was deafening.

"Leave us," the king commanded.

At once, the room was emptied save for the monarch and the nation.

King George stood up from his throne and angrily looked down at England.

"Have you forgotten who I am?"

"Have _you_?" Arthur shot back, unafraid of whatever consequences would come from his actions. "I'm the United Kingdom of Great Britain— the Empire on which The Sun Never Sets— and I will not stand idle as a group of traitors poisons the mind of my colony!"

He gestured to himself as he continued:

" _I_ need to go to Canada and handle the rebels. And _I_ need to be the one to deal with America… We've allowed this revolt to go on for far too long, it needs to be snuffed out before any other nation sees us as weak. Sending me is our best chance at ending this quickly and favorably."

The king sighed and looked off in the distance as he thought over Arthur's words. It was clear his nation wasn't going to budge on this issue, and perhaps he was right–– if an empire couldn't rein its colonies, what kind of message would that send to the rest of Europe?

King George turned back and caught Arthur's eyes.

"The American colonists are in a state of chaos, I want this rebellion to be crushed under your heel."

Arthur's heart was still pounding in his ears. He nodded.

"I'll have my ward _happily_ and _obediently_ pledging his undying allegiance to the Crown and _**me**_ as soon as I find him."

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

 **I learned that I've been using 'blonde' incorrectly my whole life. I liked adding an 'e' at the end because I thought it made the word look pretty, but apparently when it's used as an adjective (or in its masculine form) you're supposed to spell it as 'blond'. This upsets me more than it probably should.**

 **Anyway…**

 **I don't think 'Canada' was the official name of Canada at this point in time, but I decided to use it anyway to simplify things. Arthur snapping at King George might be a bit ooc… but I liked the scene too much to cut it, and I have a hard time imagining Arthur being compliant to a leader he strongly disagreed with–– monarch or otherwise. Sorry if it steps on any toes.**

 **•I've been to the Colonial Pennsylvania State House! It's another good place to visit if you're in the area and love history–– it's called Independence Hall now.**

•" **If the congress sees fit to honor me with the command, it would be my humble duty to serve" is a quote from HBO's 'John Adams' miniseries.**

 **•George Washington totally wanted to be the general in charge of the continental army. I think he was playing the long-con by wearing a military uniform to Congress everyday**

 **•Fun fact: Washington wasn't in favor of the actions taken during the Boston Tea Party, and he actually wrote a letter condemning the Sons of Liberty… something definitely feels ironic about this xD**

 **•The southern colonies wanted to remain a part of Great Britain while the northern colonies wanted independence. Marking the first of many north/south disagreements in the US.**

 **• 'The Olive Branch Petition' was one final plea for a peaceful solution to the grievances in the colony... it didn't have the best timing though.**

 **•American soldiers invaded Canada in 1775. After capturing Montreal in November, they marched to Quebec City and demanded that the governor surrender the city. The Canadians basically said heck no, to which the Americans responded by trying to capture the city (it didn't go well… the battle stats give me second hand embarrassment)**

 **•British troops arrived at North America in May of 1776 to help run the American rebels out of Canada.**

 **Yeah, invading Canada has never really worked out for the US… it's a good thing we didn't do it again (right… right… right?). Speaking of Canada, back when I researched the Coercive Acts, I found an article saying that colonists in Nova Scotia sent food and supplies to help the colonists in Massachusetts while they were under the Acts. I didn't have a place for it in the fanfic, but I still think it's a neat little fun fact!**

 **Thanks for reading :D**


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